


can I be close to you

by knightinbrightfeathers



Series: are you ready for the country (club au) [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunken Kissing, Karaoke, M/M, Misunderstandings, country club au, except not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6227332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinbrightfeathers/pseuds/knightinbrightfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is much pining, and karaoke, and misunderstandings, and the betting pool grows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can I be close to you

**Author's Note:**

> Rhien: without your help, who knows what Courfeyrac would have ended up singing?

Courfeyrac’s life is fanfiction. 

No, really. Well, not really, _obviously,_ because if it _was_ fanfiction then he and Combeferre would by this time have had lots of really good sex, or possibly they'd just hold the world record in cuddling. Courfeyrac likes cuddling. Cuddling is excellent. Courfeyrac is not the kind of person for whom sex is a deal breaker. He would be so on board with cuddling, except he's pretty sure that if he tries suggesting something of a romantic nature to Combeferre, Combeferre will run for the hills. Except he wouldn't, because Combeferre is a wonderful person who would explain perfectly nicely that he isn't interested in Courfeyrac that way. And then he would insist on being _friends,_ and Courfeyrac would agree because he wants to never leave Combeferre’s side, and they'd end up like Grantaire and Enjolras, with Courfeyrac pining and Combeferre oblivious.

Actually, never mind, he's pretty sure that Enjolras knows and Grantaire knows Enjolras knows and they're both waiting for the other to make a move. It's like a game of chicken, except with more sexual tension. Sexual tension chicken.

 _Anyways_ , now that Courfeyrac’s done being distracted by his friends - they're all amazing, it's not his fault - he can go back to pouting. Courfeyrac is a _very_ talented pouter, even if he says so himself.

“Stop making that face,” Enjolras says. “You look like a cartoon duck.”

“I'll have you know that _this_ ,” Courfeyrac says, gesturing at his own face, “is the face that launched a thousand ships.”

“Sank a thousand ships, you mean,” Enjolras says.

“Combeferre, Enjy’s being mean again,” Courfeyrac says, just for Enjolras’s indignant huff.

Combeferre looks up from his soup. “I think it's quite nice, actually,” he says.

Enjolras glares at him as Courfeyrac crows in triumph. “Traitor. You'd doom us all to a future of glitter.”

From beside the microwave, Feuilly makes a sound that can only be categorized as ‘horrified yet resigned’.

 

 

Combeferre is going quietly insane.

He isn't the kind of person who flirts. He isn't even the kind of person who just asks people out. He'd never really found anyone he was interested in. Therefore, Combeferre has no experience in - in - whatever this is. He has no one to ask, and Google search hadn't turned up anything useful for “how to ask someone you've been dating out”.

Combeferre is pretty sure that if he tries to express how he feels, he'll scare Courfeyrac away. He's given every sign that he's interested in a romantic relationship… apart from actually saying it. Rejection is just so painful. Regretfully, so is cowardice. 

Take, for example, this moment right now. Courfeyrac is waving his hands, talking excitedly about something to Joly. Combeferre has no idea what, busy with a registration for someone with too many complaints (a downside of the Center’s exclusive name). The registration is taking twice as long as it should, even with Madame Renoux’s complaints about pool hours, because Courfeyrac is being so distracting. No, Courfeyrac _is_ distracting. Especially when he is apparently trying to put someone's eye out.

“I really don't understand why I can't use the second gym,” Madame Renoux says, and Combeferre very quietly snaps. He simply reaches out and catches Courfeyrac’s wrist, making the man freeze.

“You'll give me a concussion,” is what Combeferre comes up with. To be honest, he doesn't regret it. He can feel Courfeyrac’s pulse, _ba-bum ba-bum,_ too fast. And now he _does_ regret it, because he's made Courfeyrac uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac says, grin blinding.

“You can't actually get a concussion like that-” Joly begins.

Courfeyrac whips his head around,  looking at Joly so that Combeferre can't see his face.

“I mean, definitely. Yes. Very dangerous. You should restrain him. Can't have our receptionist getting hurt!”  Joly tries to back away, realizes his cane got in the way, and turns around. “Talk to you later, Courf!”

“Bye, Jolllly!” Courfeyrac calls after him, and turns back to Combeferre. “Doctor's orders. What can you do?”

“But-” Madame Renoux says.

Combeferre gives her a look. “I'm afraid the second gym is really for team practice,” he says smoothly. “Basketball, our fencing group. You can sign up to one of our teams, of course.”

He's a little slow typing Madame Renoux’s registration form, but not because he's one handed. Combeferre wonders, filling in credit card number and address, if Courfeyrac can feel his own pulse. Too fast, but not because he was surprised. Combeferre’s heart lurches painfully against his ribcage, trying to get to his right side, where Courfeyrac is engaged in charming Madame Renoux into forgetting the strange scene.

 

 

“Thar she blows,” Courfeyrac says, with the worst accent he can summon. His English is actually pretty good, but Combeferre’s laugh is worth making himself sound like an idiot. Hell, he's done worse for less.

“Aye, Cap’n!” Combeferre says. His bad accent is real. “Dodo ahoy!“

“ _Atroce_ ,” Courfeyrac says, laughing. “I don't understand how your Pakistani is perfect and you speak Spanish as if you were born to it, and still abuse such a simple language as English.”

“Not all of us have American mothers,” Combeferre says in that fond voice that makes Courfeyrac’s insides squirm. “And English isn't simple. It's a bandit language. It mugs other languages in dark alleyways for loose grammar.”

There's only one defense for Courfeyrac’s poor heart when Combeferre goes all intellectual on him: humor. “Maybe you just aren't cut out to be a pirate,” he says, slinging an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders. It doesn't go all the way around. _Damn._

“I suppose you are?” Combeferre asks, laughing as they teeter and zigzag across the sidewalk. It's not very late, and there are plenty of people out to think them drunk. Courfeyrac can't find it in himself to give a damn.

“But of course! The wind in my hair! The stylish waistcoat! The thrill of adventure!” Courfeyrac cries, dragging Combeferre to a bench so he can jump onto it and pose dramatically. “And you, _un ami très proche_ , as my first mate! We will sow fear in the hearts of all who see our flag!”

“Scare the pigeons, more like,” Combeferre says. He wraps an arm around Courferyac’s waist to pull him off the bench, and now they stand close, thigh to thigh. “If you're this unsteady even on solid ground, I think you had better stay on land.”

Courfeyrac looks up into Combeferre’s tenderly amused grin. It's these moments that keep him going.

Guiltily, mind you.

 

 

“I will pay you a thousand euro to make it go away,” Musichetta says to Combeferre.

“Courfeyrac, or the singing?” Combeferre asks, as onstage, Courfeyrac informs them that they don't know what makes them beautiful. 

“Both,” Musichetta says. “Both is good.”

Éponine leans backwards in her chair. “My firstborn for this horror to stop.” Her breath smells of margaritas, but her eyes are clear. Courfeyrac singing is a sobering experience.

“‘Ponine,” Cosette says, voice too loud because her hands are on her ears, “we said no promises you don't intend to keep.”

“I don't think I'm ready for fatherhood,” Combeferre adds.

Éponine rolls her eyes. “I'll cover your tab if you get Harry Styles off the stage.”

“I only had a Coke.”

“But when you smile at the ground, it ain't hard to tell, you don't know,” Courfeyrac wails. “Oh, oh!”

The Center workers wince as one.

“I think I'm getting a migraine,” Joly whimpers.

“I'll cover _his_ tab,” Eponine says. “Last offer before I gag him with his own socks.”

“But why me?” Combeferre asks. The looks he gets vary from sympathetic (Musichetta) to disbelieving (Bahorel) to amused (Grantaire). He sighs and stands, grateful at least that he has the advantage of sobriety.

Courfeyrac is fiddling with the karaoke machine, saying things like “Gonna knock em off their feet” and “Ooh, T Swizzle!” It says a lot about their friendship that Combeferre knows what that even means.

“Courf, maybe let someone else have a go?” he says.

The stage isn't very tall. Courfeyrac is at eye level with him like this. This means that Combeferre gets the full impact of Courfeyrac’s ecstatic face. It doesn't take much to get Courfeyrac excited, but considering how happy he looks right now, Combeferre considers telling Éponine not to pay his tab. Who knows how many cocktails Courfeyrac drank. Or what goes in those cocktails.

“But it's so fun! And no one else wanted to try, and I asked and asked,” Courfeyrac says.

“You've done four songs,” Combeferre says.

“But no one else wants to! I was going to sing I Knew You Were Trouble! You like that song, don't you, Ferre?” Courfeyrac wheedles.

Combeferre does not. Combeferre could take or leave Taylor Swift, in general. What he does like is his nickname in Courfeyrac’s voice. He hardens his heart. “Grantaire wants to sing, don't you, R?” 

“Uh,” Grantaire says. “Okay?”

Courfeyrac pouts. “Fine.”

After Grantaire’s extremely well executed “Light my Fire” and Bousset’s predictably ridiculous cover of “Don't Stop Believing”, followed by Jehan crooning “I Would Die 4 U”, the bartender politely but firmly ushers them out. Most of them aren't too drunk, with the exception of lightweight Cosette, who is singing “Hooked on a Feeling” under her breath.

“Take him home,” Enjolras orders him, nudging Cosette in the direction of a cab.

Combeferre doesn't need to be told twice. He doesn't even need to be told once, actually. Since he doesn't drink, he drove to the bar and can drop Courfeyrac off on his way home.

Éponine winks at him. Combeferre flushes.

“Ferre,” Courfeyrac says, once they're both in the car. “It's very late.”

“Congratulations,” Combeferre says drily. “You've mastered the concept of relativity in time.”

“No, I mean, you must be tired!” Courfeyrac looks at him seriously. “It's dangerous to drive when you're tired.”

“Although that is true, I think I will be fine,” Combeferre says.

Courfeyrac ignores him. It's amazing how little alcohol changes him. “But you drove me anyways! Because you're a great person. A wonderful person, Combeferre. You're so amazing! And awesome! And wonderful!”

“You used wonderful twice.”

“It's because you're _really_ wonderful.”

Combeferre smiles despite of himself. “You're pretty nice yourself.”

Courfeyrac gasps theatrically. “You think I'm pretty?”

“That's not what I said,” Combeferre says.

“But you do, right?”

This is some kind of torture invented just for him, Combeferre knows it. “Yes, I do.”

“I like you so much. You're my favorite, ” Courfeyrac says. “And I'm your favorite, right?”

“Yes, you are.”

“Soooo…” Courfeyrac leans into Combeferre’s shoulder. “Can I hold your hand?”

Torture. “I don't think that's a good idea, Courfeyrac.”

“Please?” Courfeyrac wheedles.

Combeferre sighs. “All right.” It's only a few minutes to Courfeyrac’s building anyways.

Combeferre regrets agreeing within less than a minute. Courfeyrac’s hand is smaller than his, but it radiates heat. Combeferre can feel every callous Courfeyrac got from the tennis racquet. He keeps his hand completely still until he has to let go to park the car.

“Here we go,” Combeferre says. The car is full of _something_ , some kind of tension, so he adds, “Don't forget to drink lots of water.”

“Thanks for driving me,” Courfeyrac says, unbuckling his seat belt. Then, quick as a wish, he leans over and presses his mouth to Combeferre’s.

It's not a very good kiss, dry and awkward and the angle is all wrong. It's still more than Combeferre ever thought he would get…because Courfeyrac doesn't feel that way about him. And Courfeyrac is drunk.

Heart pounding, Combeferre pushes Courfeyrac away gently. “This isn't a good idea,” he says, hating himself, hating the fact that he'd hate himself more if he ruined his friendship with Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac stares at him. And then he's scrambling out of the car, his hasty “good night” cut off by the slam of the door.

Combeferre watches until Courfeyrac is safely inside the building, and then he drives home. Before he goes to bed, he texts Eponine, feeling guilty.

_I'll pay you back for Courferyac’s tab._

Éponine texts him back a few seconds later. _Dude, it's not going to bankrupt me._

That's Éponine's pride talking. As drunk as Courfeyrac was, the tab was definitely big, and she has a teenage boy to take care of. _Consider it your Christmas present this year._

He goes into the group chat to say that both he and Courfeyrac are home safe, and falls asleep before Éponine sends him a reply.

 

 

Combeferre wakes up feeling as if something heavy and solid has lodged in his chest. It takes a moment for him to remember why, and when he does, he closes his eyes again.

How to fix this? The best case scenario would be Courfeyrac being so drunk last night that he doesn't remember what happened. That's an extremely shitty scenario, however.

Combeferre goes through his morning routine. It's Sunday, so the Center is closed. He takes his time brushing his teeth and making coffee, only remembering his phone after half a cup.

There's the usual jumble of messages on the group chat from last night, mostly people saying that they got home all right plus a very eloquent argument between Grantaire and Enjolras, considering the medium, before Bousset suggested they ‘get a (chat) room’. 

He's got a private message from Éponine, too. Combeferre really doesn't want to look at it, but Éponine doesn't deserve to be ignored.

 _You're a sucky Xmas present giver. Probably comes of not celebrating Xmas,_ it reads. _Courf only had a beer and one of those cocktails with the paper umbrellas._

Courfeyrac wasn't drunk last night. Combeferre has never touched alcohol, but he does know that two units of alcohol and a massive amount of sugar wouldn't make a grown man drunk. And Courfeyrac - Courfeyrac’s impulsive, and easy with his friends, and emotional, but he would never - never -

He hadn't even tasted of that drink.

Combeferre doesn't even notice that he's let his mug slip until he's spilled lukewarm coffee on his crotch.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he says, and he isn't talking about the coffee.

 

 

Courfeyrac is the master of not letting things get awkward after he sleeps with someone. Kissing his best friend and being rejected, and worse, that look in Combeferre’s eyes - he hasn't had so much experience with that. And the cherry on top of the crap sundae is that he didn't even ask Combeferre. Combeferre’s comfortable with letting Courfeyrac hug him, platonic physical contact, but he's _asexual_ , for Pete’s sake, and even if he wasn't, consent is _important_. You don't just kiss someone!

Dwelling on how badly he's fucked up does not make Courfeyrac’s Sunday a day full of sunshine and happiness. The sun probably finds him disgusting now. He's ruined his friendship with Combeferre. Work is going to be so awkward. _Life_ is going to be awkward.

In true Courfeyrac fashion, however, he decides not to let it affect him. He can do this.

Of course, lingering outside the Center, just out of sight of the main desk, is new behavior for him, but Courfeyrac’s determined to overcome this obstacle.

“Good morning, Courf,” R says, passing him and making the door slide open.

Combeferre looks up immediately, and Courfeyrac trails in after Grantaire. He tries a grin.

The smile he gets from Combeferre is careful. Of course it is. He's probably afraid Courfeyrac will jump him.

“Can we talk?” Combeferre asks.

Courfeyrac ignored every message or phone call he got during his day off. About 90% of those were from Combeferre. (He didn't ignore the ones from his family. He's not that kind of monster.)

“Sure,” he says. “I have the senior citizens class at nine, but maybe at lunch-“

“Now, please,” Combeferre says, and yes, Courfeyrac is a bad person, because that is still a turn-on.

“What about-”

“Cosette can cover for me,” Combeferre says.

“She can?” Cosette asks, having just walked in. She takes in the scene before her and nods. “What are friends for?”

“Don't you have a class to teach?” Courfeyrac asks, a little desperately. Forget self respect, he is in no way prepared for the “it's not you it's me” talk.

“Not for another half an hour,” Cosette says cheerily. When Combeferre moves out from behind the desk to let her take his place, she gives Courfeyrac a big, misguided wink.

May the phrase “misguided wink” never occur to Courfeyrac ever again.

Combeferre leads the way to one of the empty rooms. He closes the door behind them without locking it, but Courfeyrac still feels trapped.

“Are you sure no one's going to need this room?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I checked the schedule.” Combeferre frowns. “Courfeyrac, are you uncomfortable? We don't have to talk, if you'd rather not.”

 _Thank God, I'll take it_ , Courfeyrac’s mind says. “I'm alright,” his traitor mouth says. “Just…can I go first? Please?” He may be a horrible person, but he's not a coward.

“Of course,” Combeferre says. He's _smiling._ God.

“Saturday was... I stepped over the line, I know I did. I shouldn't have forced myself on you like that. Especially when you're asexual. I can't imagine what it felt like, and I'm really sorry.”

“Courfeyrac-” Combeferre begins.

“Can… can I finish this first? Just let me say everything. I owe you that at least.” Courfeyrac takes a deep breath. “You're an amazing friend, and I don't want to lose that. I let my feelings get the better of me, but I can control myself, I promise. I understand if you feel uncomfortable about all the times we held hands and things, but I want you to know that there was never any sexual intent behind those purely platonic touches…”

Combeferre makes a choking noise.

“Combeferre? Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong? Again?” Courfeyrac takes a hesitant step towards Combeferre, who wipes at his eyes. “Are you crying? No no no, please don't cry!”

“‘m not crying,” Combeferre gasps, and no, those are definitely not tears of sorrow or pain. Courfeyrac feels a little hurt. He didn't expect Combeferre, of all people, to laugh at him.

“Courf,” Combeferre says, smiling at him, “you are _such_ a drama queen.”

“Well, excuse me,” Courfeyrac mutters.

“No, no, I mean - however did you get the idea that I was asexual? And as for forcing yourself on me, it was just one kiss. I've seen my friends doing worse things when they were drunk, believe me.”

“You're not ace? But you said you'd never had sex! You said-”

“I'm demisexual,” Combeferre said. “And what I said was that I'd never wanted to have sex with anyone. And that conversation was at three a.m., Courfeyrac, did you never think to ask for clarification?”

“But you pushed me away!” Courfeyrac says.

“I thought…” Combeferre blushes. Courfeyrac’s doomed to a lifetime of Combeferre blushing and he's not even mad. “I thought you were drunk.”

“Ohhhhhhh,” Courfeyrac says.

“Yes,” Combeferre says. “And I really didn't mind holding hands with you all those times. I was kind of hoping those _weren't_ purely platonic touches, actually.”

“Really?” Courfeyrac asked. “You like me _back_? I thought you were just playing along with my - and you mean - all those times I wanted to kiss you-”

“You could have,” Combeferre says. He's glowing with warmth in Courf-Vision, from affection and beauty and goodness and sexiness. “You could kiss me right now, if you like.”

He looks a little nervous, but determined. Courfeyrac can't believe his luck.

“I'm going to give you the best second kiss ever,” he vows, and leans in.

Combeferre meets him halfway, in more ways than one. The angle is awkward, so they adjust. Courfeyrac has to stand on his toes, so Combeferre leans down a bit. Their hands hover awkwardly, until Courfeyrac grabs Combeferre wrists, puts them on his waist, and laces his own hands through Combeferre’s hair.

The kiss gets much better after that.

 

 

“About damn time,” Cosette says when they return, mouths swollen and cheeks flushed. “Just in time to save me from being late for my morning class, too.” She vacates the chair behind the desk. “ _And_ I won the betting pool. Ép’s going to be pissed.”

“There's a betting pool?” Combeferre asks.

Cosette just tosses her hair over her shoulder and skips away.

“There's a _betting pool?_ ” Courfeyrac shouts after her. 

 

 

Époninelooks up at the two men looming over her.

“We want in,” Courfeyrac says.

“ _He_ wants in. I just want to see what happens when Enjolras finds out,” Combeferre says.

Éponine turns her head towards Cosette, who shrugs helplessly.

“They're really adorable?” she tries.

Éponine sighs. “Fine. I guess you qualify now. Currency of choice?”

“Salted caramel,” Combeferre says.

“Lollipops,” Courfeyrac says.

Jehan raises both eyebrows.

“What?” Courfeyrac asks innocently.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Bloom by The Paper Kites.  
> Courfeyrac sings "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction, because I love inflicting pain on my darlings. The rest of the songs I got from a list of karaoke songs. You're welcome to imagine R dancing on a karaoke stage while Enjolras makes intense eye contact with his butt. I know I did.  
> Headcanon time: Combeferre is Muslim and Pakistani. Courfeyrac is white as they come. Salmon shorts. Colorful polos. Sunglasses. I know. I'm sorry.  
> Oh, and the movie they go see is "The Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists!" which is an absolutely ridiculous stop animation involving the Queen of England, a dodo, Charles Darwin, and Hugh Grant's voice coming from a pirate.


End file.
